


Looking Before You Leap

by mdatot



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Marriage Proposal, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23074237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mdatot/pseuds/mdatot
Summary: Éomer is a man of action. He trusts his instincts, even when it comes to choosing a wife and queen. Lothíriel is everything he is not, a methodical woman who would rather look carefully before she leaps. She does not say no, but she does not say yes either.
Relationships: Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel
Comments: 9
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> don't think too hard about where this fits into the canon lord of the rings timeline, because I definitely haven't. it's just a bit of self-indulgent fluff, don't worry about it.

He finds her in the garden of Imrahil’s townhouse, tucked away among the lilacs with a book in her lap, her grey gown dappled by the afternoon sun through the leaves. She looks up as he approaches, raising her eyebrows at him as she reaches for the bookmark next to her on the bench. Her dark hair is loose, tumbling down over her shoulders.

“Éomer”, she greets him, closing the book. He glances at the title, but it appears to be in Sindarin and he’s badly out of practice.

“My lady.” He clasps his hands behind his back, straightening as if he was a young rider about to report to his marshal. She tilts her head slightly to one side and gives him an odd look.

“My name is Lothíriel,” she gently chides him. “Surely you have not forgotten that we agreed to be less formal yesterday?” She pats the bench and moves a little to the left. “Come, sit with me.” 

He nods, grateful for the invitation, and slowly comes to sink down on the bench, leaving what he hopes to be an appropriate gap between them. He is an experienced campaigner, but on this battlefield of courtly manners he is greener than he ever was as the youngest rider in Elfhelm’s éored. Still, he has prepared as well as he could.

“Lothíriel,” he begins again, “we have not known each other for long, but...” He hesitates for a moment, seeing her inquisitive look in the corner of his eye, then continues. “I have… a favor to ask, or maybe rather an offer to make.” He turns to look at her. “Would you hear me out?”

Her face is an impassive mask now, revealing nothing. The face of a princess, he thinks. “I will listen”, she says.

He hesitates again, idly wondering if she might already suspect where this is going, and for a moment a faint breeze rustling the leaves is the only sound heard in the garden. She waits patiently, her full attention on him. It’s time to sound the horns and commit to the charge, he decides. He draws a steadying breath, looks away from her, and starts on what he has prepared to say.

“If I were a more courtly man, I would certainly not have done things this way, but I will not pretend. You seem to me an honorable and reasonable woman, and I hope you will not take offense. We rohirrim value honesty, and so I will be honest with you, as I hope you will be with me in return.”

He stops for a moment and glances at her. She still wears her impassive face and says nothing, but nods for him to continue.

“You have been a good friend to my sister, when other ladies of the court have looked askance at her as an outsider. Your brothers and your father are my trusted shield-brothers. By all accounts, you are a most capable administrator, a skilled diplomat, an educated woman who keeps her own counsel.”

He pauses again, but he is committed now and there is no turning back. All plans involve risks, and in battle, hesitation often means death. The only plan he could come up with requires baring his heart and his doubts, and so he forges onward, not daring to look at her. 

“I, on the other hand, am a warrior, never meant to be a king. I am at ease leading men on campaign, but in a council chamber or at Elessar’s court, I am lost. But the campaign is over, and the war is won, and I am king whether I want it or not.”

He turns back to her now, and looks into her grey eyes. Her expression is unreadable.

“I need an advisor, someone who has strengths that I lack, someone I can trust absolutely, a companion, a…” he trails off, but steels himself and finishes in a whisper, “a queen”. He is unable to look away.

She blinks slowly, and he finds himself briefly fascinated by her long eyelashes.

“Éomer,” she says faintly but steadily, “are… are you trying to propose to me?”

He coughs and looks down, staring at the flagstones. He can feel a faint color rising on his cheeks.

“Yes. The Mark needs - I need a queen. I can hardly think of any woman better suited than you. I-” He means to go on, getting back to his plan and speaking faster now, but she interrupts him.

“Then, I assume you have spoken to my father about this already?” Her tone is even, but there is an edge to her voice now. He keeps his head down.

“No. I am glad to consider Imrahil a friend and ally, but I need you, not him.” She makes a faint noise, but he soldiers on. “As I said, I need someone I can trust implicitly, someone who I can always rely on to be candid with me. Not a second-in-command or a subordinate - an equal. It must be your decision, not your father’s.”

He looks up again. Her impassive mask is gone now, replaced by some confused mix of emotions, and her mouth is slightly agape. He’s definitely put her off-balance, and so he gives her a lopsided smile and tries to lighten the mood.

“Even so, I very much doubt that your father would be opposed, were I to ask him. Even I, as oblivious to courtly manners as I am, could not possibly misunderstand what he has been trying to imply with all his talking about his lovely unmarried daughter.”

At that, she turns away and mutters something in Sindarin. When she looks back at him the impassive mask has returned.

“I… must say I am humbled by your faith in me, Éomer, but we barely know each other,” she says. “Forgive me if I seem to doubt your intentions, but what made you decide to approach me with this… unprecedented proposal so suddenly? Surely there are other women who are just as capable, and I know little of the Mark and its people.”

He sighs. He was certain this question would come, but he is not sure he can explain his reasoning to her satisfaction. Still, he must try. “I can certainly understand your doubts,” he begins, slowly. “I realize this must seem very sudden to you, but I have had you, or at least someone like you, in mind for a while now.” He pauses, uncertain about how to go on. There is a faint wrinkle on her brow now, but she says nothing, instead making a small circular gesture with her hand, as if telling him to continue.

He straightens and decides to try a different approach. “Éowyn has told you about Gríma Wormtongue, yes?” he asks abruptly.

She hesitates, but if she is surprised by his change in topic, she does not show it. “I know who he was and what he did,” she acknowledges slowly, “but not in much detail. Why?”

He grimaces. “It is well that she spared you the details, for it is an evil tale. I do not believe she has told it all even to me. Maybe Faramir…” he shakes his head and stops there. “The details are unimportant.”

He looks at her again, and his tone sharpens. “What is important is that against Gríma Wormtongue, I was powerless.” He locks his gaze to hers, willing her to understand. “I saw my sister sink into despair and anguish, my uncle reduced to a shadow, the Mark at the brink of ruin, and I could do nothing.” He is almost hissing through his clenched jaw at her now, bristling at the memory. He draws a calming breath before continuing.

“Men call me a great warrior, and not without reason. I know how to make war, when to attack and when to retreat, and with my sword and my riders there are few things in middle-earth I could not fight.” He looks away, and suddenly he is back on the fields of Pelennor, that horrifying day. He blinks, but when he opens his eyes he is back in the sunlit garden on the bench beside Lothíriel, who is still listening patiently. His voice is hoarse when he continues. “Éowyn herself fought things that I could not. She is stronger than I, in some ways.”

He turns to Lothíriel again. “And yet,” his voice is soft now, “for all our strength, against Gríma’s words, we were as helpless as newborn lambs. I do not know how to fight with words, and I do not know if I could learn.” He leans back and stares into the sky. The memory is unexpectedly raw and painful, and even though he had prepared for this, he is still ashamed at his admission of weakness. He does not know how to go on. Silence stretches out between them.

Eventually, she is the one to break it. “I am not Mithrandir’s equal, Éomer,” she says, very gently, and he can hear no scorn or pity in her voice. “I do not think I could have saved you from Gríma.”

“Aye,” he sighs. “I apologize. That was not what I meant.” He glances at her. Her expression is softer now, no longer the impassive mask. “Gríma…” he finds himself lacking words, and stumbles on, “Gríma himself is not… I mean…” He tries to gather his wits, and turns to face her again.

“I am not looking for someone who could fight the likes of Saruman, or Saruman’s lackeys,” he begins. “What I meant to say was that Gríma made me realize that there are battles I am woefully incapable of fighting, battles that are over before I even realized I was fighting them. There are good men on my council, and loyal, but they all have their own interests to look after. They tell me I must marry, and they are right, but if I go back to Edoras unprepared it will not be long before all their words have set my head spinning and I will hear myself agreeing to marry some daughter or niece, surely very pretty and agreeable, and just as surely unlikely to disagree with her father or uncle.”

He is speaking faster now, but she seems to be following intently, so he goes on to conclude his line of reasoning. “I would soon become a king in name only, a figurehead. It is no disadvantage that you would be an outsider in the Mark. You could see with fresh eyes, unclouded by old feuds and prejudices. And while you too have your own interests, I think those interests are in line with mine as far as the Mark is concerned. I would follow Elessar, and I think you would do the same.”

She is frowning at him now. “You may be selling yourself short,” she says. He shrugs, not sure if he believes her. “Do you really not have anyone you trust at your court?” she asks then, and he thinks he hears some concern in her tone.

“I have men I trust with my life and more,” he reassures her, “but they are as I, warriors with little skill at words and politicking.”

She does not seem happy with this answer, and her frown deepens. “I do not understand,” she says, and now she seems irritated. “You would trust me, a foreign woman - a slip of a girl, your council would say - over your own shield-brothers? Trust me to guide you and keep you independent? We are barely more than strangers. I could count the number of hours we have spent together on my fingers. How did you come to this decision, Éomer?” She is glaring at him now, as if she’s upset with his poor judgement.

He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “I could not put into words the reasons why I would trust you,” he tries to explain, then hurries to continue under her glare. “It is not a matter of reason. On the battlefield, there is rarely time to carefully consider your options. Indecisiveness and lack of action is the gravest of errors there, and so I have learned to trust my gut, for better or for worse. At court, it may be for worse more often than not. But when it comes to the measure of a man, or a woman, I find that I am rarely mistaken. I trust your father and your brothers, and I judge you to be cut from the same cloth. Éowyn trusts you, and I would as well.”

Her glare softens then, and she turns away and sighs, staring at the lilacs.

He waits to see if she has anything more to say, but she seems lost in thought. He clears his throat. “So, you understand what I am asking, then?” he prompts. “I need a queen who is strong where I am weak, an honorable woman who will not hesitate to tell me when I am wrong, a woman who will not easily bend to the words of my council.”

That does not seem to have been the right thing to say. She turns back towards him, and the glare is back in full force. There is a dangerous glint to her eyes as she leans in towards him, and he suddenly feels like he’s been caught far behind enemy lines with no reinforcements in sight.

“May I remind you that you are asking me to be your  _ wife _ , Éomer?” she snaps. “You have talked so much about advice and councils that I am wondering if you have forgotten that you are asking me to share your life and your bedchamber, be the mother of-” She stops abruptly, as if she’s said too much.

He can feel heat rising in his cheeks, as if he was a green boy again, and avoids her gaze.

“I have not forgotten,” he mutters. “I merely thought…” He clears his throat and stares down at the flagstones. “It is sound tactics to center an offensive around one’s strengths, and so I meant to emphasize what I thought other suitors would not offer you. You are rightly pointing out a weakness of mine, as I cannot offer you love. I have never known love, and I have no hope or expectation to find it for myself.” He looks up again. “All the same, I have heard it said that your wife should be your best friend, and I think we could be friends.”

He hesitates, but finds her gaze again, and tries to convey his sincerity. “You have been good and amiable company on our outings with our siblings in these last few days, and I did very much enjoy dancing with you at the feast yesterday.” His cheeks are definitely burning now, but he keeps his eyes locked with hers and continues. There is no retreating now. “As for the… bedchamber, I assure you, there is no woman I would rather share it with. You are -” he stops, reminding himself that this is Gondor, she is a princess of Dol Amroth, and he must not be inappropriate, and he settles on ”- a very beautiful woman, Lothíriel.”

They are both blushing now, and he is sure he must have said something inappropriate after all. She breaks his gaze and looks away.

“You are unbelievable,” she mutters. “One moment you talk like you are planning a military campaign, and the next you just…” She makes a little helpless gesture with her hands.

He can’t help but laugh a little at that. “Surely you have had suitors more refined than I call you prettier things,” he smiles. She mutters something inaudible, something about bedchambers he thinks, but he’s definitely said more than enough about that already, and ignores her.

“Perhaps I should have followed you into the garden when you went out to cool down from the dance last night, gone to my knees and professed my heartfelt love for you in the moonlight?” he jokes, trying to get over the embarrassment.

She makes an unladylike snort, but smiles back at him. “Had you done that, I would have rolled my eyes and told you to go home and sober up, and maybe asked if Amrothos had put you up to it.”

He laughs, and she laughs with him, and for a little while he feels happy and carefree, in a way he has not felt in a long time. They smile at each other, but soon she smoothes her expression, although she stops short of the unreadable face from earlier.

“You have given me much to think about, my lord,” she says. He does not fail to notice the formality, and suddenly he feels very uncertain. Just now, it seemed the battle was in his favour, but her words immediately remind him that he has no experience here. Maybe he has completely misread the situation?

“I cannot give you an answer now,” she continues, her tone serious. “But I will consider your words, and we shall speak again before you leave Minas Tirith. I will seek you out when I am ready.”

He nods. He shall have to be patient, then, but soldiers are well used to waiting. “Very well,” he says, and as he rises he takes her hand. “I thank you for hearing me out, my lady. I shall take my leave.” He lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses her knuckles. This much court protocol he can manage, at least. She gives him a dignified nod and a gentle smile as he lets go of her hand.

“Of course, Éomer,” she murmurs. He is somewhat reassured at that, and smiles back as he turns and leaves her to her book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up, Lothíriel gives her answer, or rather a counter-offer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lothíriel tries her best to be calm, methodical, and reasonable. Éomer is not particularly cooperative in this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was hard to write. Lothíriel thinks too much.

She finds him leaning against the citadel battlements, looking out over the plains below, seemingly lost in thought, or maybe in memory. She stops at the top of the staircase, maybe a hundred feet from him, watching him silently. He takes no notice of her. The day is mild, cloudy and calm, the wind only barely managing to play with a few strands of his blond mane. 

Of course he had to go and ruin things by proposing. She recalls a feeling of being enveloped in a wet, grey mist of disappointment; with all men in general, and with him in particular. But then he had surprised her. She has had many suitors and heard all kinds of proposals, offering her love or riches or - in one memorable case - a library, but never one like his. It is a… most intriguing opportunity. There is no denying that. Still, she is not one to be swept off her feet by a man, however tall, blonde and handsome he may be.

She tries to ignore the small knot of unease deep in her gut. There is no way to know how he will react to what she is about to say. She had briefly considered telling Éowyn everything and begging for her advice, but had decided against it. Éowyn does not strike her as nearly as meddlesome and overbearing as her own brothers, but this is between Éomer and herself. The extent to which he had been willing to trust her based on nothing but his instinct had been almost more shocking to her than the terms of the proposal itself. She doubts she will ever really understand his way of thinking, but even so she finds that she is unable to doubt his sincerity. Which means she has accepted his reasoning - if she can even call it that - after all. That is unsettling. She can only hope he is willing to accept her own reasoning in turn, as foreign as it might seem to him. Her idea is unconventional to say the least, but she cannot think of a man less bound by convention, or at least not by Gondorian convention, but if it doesn’t work out…

She is dawdling, she knows, letting her mind run free, thoughts chasing each other in circles. That will not do. She has made her preparations, done her research as far as time has allowed, considered every angle she could think of. She will not gain anything by waiting.

He has not moved. He is in a neat court dress, green of course, but even though he wears it well, she cannot help but think that he looks out of place in it. She hesitates another moment, in spite of herself. Then she gathers herself, and out of old habit she arranges her features in an impassive expression, familiar from many years of practice. As always, she finds it steadies her. _ A lady’s face, _ she hears aunt Ivriniel’s voice whispering in the back of her head,  _ is part of her armor. It must- _ she suppresses the voice, as she starts walking towards him, her steps perhaps a bit too long to be really proper at court. Ivriniel means well, and she cannot deny that many of her lessons have been useful, but she refuses to fit in the mold her aunt would have her cast in.

Éomer turns to look at her as she nears, as she expected. She has not been able to sneak up on her brothers in many years, and he is no different. “My lord,” she greets him. She is slipping into the familiar patterns of formality and has to stop herself from curtsying. It would give him the wrong impression. He pushes his body away from the battlement and stands straight, and she has to look up to meet his gray-green eyes. She is tall for a woman, owing to her ancestry, and she is unused to men of his impressive height.

“My lady,” he responds, somewhat guardedly. He does not seem to know what to do with his hands, moving to clasp them behind his back, but then stopping halfway. Her mind is almost as restless, and she finds herself fleetingly wondering what he would do if she were to try to stall and bring her full arsenal of polite conversation topics to bear against him. She could keep him here talking to her for the better part of the day without saying anything meaningful at all.  _ A lady never lacks for something to converse about,  _ Ivriniel whispers.  _ Even if she were to find herself taking tea with a cave troll- _ No. She is not a cruel woman, and she knows he will appreciate directness, contrary to her training as it may be.

“I cannot accept your proposal,” she declares. He does not seem surprised, but he seems to shrink a bit all the same, his stance collapsing, and she hurries to continue. “However, I would like to make you an offer of my own, one that I think could be to the satisfaction of us both.” He looks up, eyebrows rising in surprise, suddenly alert again. “Will you hear me out?” she asks.

“I will,” he responds immediately, his curiosity roused.

She nods in acknowledgement, and relaxes her pose somewhat. As comforting as the forms and habits of her training are, they will not work to her advantage here. He would not appreciate them. “Your proposal was certainly intriguing to me, Éomer,” she begins, her tone serious. “You were right to assume that you were offering something others have not. I was impressed by your honesty and trust in me.” Perhaps astonished also, she adds silently. He seems faintly embarrassed by her words nonetheless, and she gives him a small smile in an attempt to reassure him.

“I know the Rohirrim are a prideful people, and I understand it may not have been easy for you to admit your doubts to me.” Many men would rather lose a finger than admit a weakness to a woman, she suspects, and has to suppress a flash of annoyance. “As you were honest with me, I shall respond in kind,” she says instead.

“I would appreciate that very much,” he murmurs, his expression serious. His voice is deep and mellow, and she has to fight off a shiver.

“You have earned it,” she returns, equally serious. They share a moment of understanding. She will keep his confidence, as he will keep hers.

“We are different, you and I,” she says, more at ease now. As fresh as their… - friendship? yes, friendship, she decides - is, she can find some comfort in his trust in her. “And that is why you came to me. I am not a warrior, and I do not come as easily to decisions as you do. I am… unsettled if I do not know what to expect, and so I take care to always try to understand where I am going.” Those simple words make it sound like such a small thing, but there is no need to elaborate. “I do not commit before carefully considering the consequences.” He nods slowly in acceptance, his expression open and attentive.

“To you, indecisiveness and being slow to act is a grave error,” she goes on, using his words from the garden, “but to me, taking good time to decide and to act is a sign of wisdom.”

There’s a small crease to his brow now. “I did not mean to belittle you with those words, Lothíriel,” he protests. “A shield-maiden you are not, but you fight battles all the same, though your battlefield is different. Your battlefield requires other strengths than mine.”

“I did not take offense,” she reassures him, and his expression eases. He looks much better when he isn’t frowning, a whimsical part of mind interjects. She ignores it. “I understood what you meant, and I am honored.” She cannot think of council chambers and court functions as a battlefield, but there is no doubt that the words are meant as a sincere compliment, and she accepts them as they were intended, finding them to be encouraging.

“You have offered me a position where I could use my strengths to an extent that would be hard to find room for here,” she continues, holding his gaze, “but accepting your proposal would of course mean a lifelong commitment. As intriguing as it is, I cannot commit to such a thing without extensive knowledge of what I am getting into.”

He blinks, clearly surprised, and the crease in his brow reappears as he considers her words. “Would it help…” he hesitates, “if I were to court you, then? I-”

“A well intentioned thought,” she approves, interrupting him, “but no.”  _ Interruptions are inexcusable. A lady is never so rude-, _ Ivriniel hisses, but she suppresses the voice again. Some elaboration might be helpful here, she realizes. “You have never seen what a formal and proper courtship period involves, have you?”

“I have not,” he admits. “There is no such thing in the Mark.”

“That is just as well,” she sighs, grinning wryly at him, “because it is completely useless.” She reconsiders, turning to give the citadel a thoughtful look, one hand on her hip. “Well, at least if you are trying to get to know your intended,” she absently muses out loud. “It can be an intriguing lesson in the most obscure corners of arcane court etiquette, if you are interested in that sort of thing.” She turns back to him, focusing again. “Suffice to say it involves a whole lot of complicated courtly rituals, old ladies sneering at your ill breeding,” since aunt Ivriniel would certainly get herself involved, she thinks, irritated, “and a lot of meddlesome chaperones. We could be courting for a year and never once get an opportunity to speak to each other alone.”

He looks baffled, as if he is incapable of comprehending why anyone would subject themselves to such a thing. She can sympathize, but this is not the time to dwell on that particular annoyance. “More importantly,” she goes on, her tone sharpening, “courting would be seen as a significant political signal. Courting is a precursor to a betrothal, but while it is supposed to have fewer strings attached and so be easier to break off, the fact is that it has come to be seen as almost the same thing as a betrothal, at least as far as what is generally regarded as honorable.”

This is a side-track, but the topic is deeply familiar to her, and she speaks faster now, gesturing with her hands to emphasize her point. “I am not currently under any real pressure to get married. The succession is secure in my brothers and my nephew. I could be used to secure a valuable alliance, but my father would not force me if I were unwilling, and he is content to let me decide for myself when or if I am ready. King Elessar could pressure him, but I strongly doubt he would. I do not particularly enjoy the thought of growing old as an idle court lady, perhaps waiting on queen Undómiel, but getting stuck in an unhappy marriage for the rest of my life is a far less appealing thought.” He seems a little overwhelmed by her sudden stream of words, and she cannot tell if he is impressed or appalled or both.

She is getting to the point, and does not let herself be discouraged. “However,” and her voice hardens, “if I were to accept a formal courtship offer, things would change. As I said, it would be very hard to back out of. There would be a great deal of social pressure against it. I value my freedom to choose, and I will not give it up easily.” She gives him a stern look, and while he seems suitably impressed, it also seems like he is trying to gather himself for a protest. She has probably given him the wrong impression, now.

“Even disregarding that,” she tries to recover, “there are more important concerns that courting would not address. I do not doubt the sincerity of your proposal,” careful now, “but the strength of my position in the Mark would depend a great deal on people other than you, as well.” That gets his attention, and his expression sharpens in thought, but thankfully he does not seem offended.

She slows, her expression softening. He seems to have decided to let her speak her part, and is waiting for her to continue. “Which brings me to my offer.” She pauses. “It might seem very odd to you, but I assure you I am as sincere in this as you.” He waits expectantly and motions for her to continue, his curiosity clear on his face.

“Your proposal is… unique,” she ventures, stalling in spite of herself, “and I hesitate to let such an opportunity pass me by. Even so, I will not commit to it blindly. So, what I will propose is that you let me try.” She stops abruptly, unable to look away. There it is, out in the open, and the knot of unease in her gut is definitely back. He is staring back at her, and she is not sure if he has understood what she means.

“There would be no courtship, no betrothal, no commitment at all,” she tries to clarify, “but I would come with you to Edoras, and for a time I would try to be your companion, your advisor, your friend, in every way a wife would. Get to know your council, your friends, your customs. To explore what it would be like.” His eyebrows are rising into his hairline.

“After a time, we would decide whether to… commit, or not.” She is almost babbling now. Unacceptable. “If not, I would return home and we would both be free to do as we wished.”

“And if you found things to your liking,” he finally asks, “we would get married?” His face is open, thoughtful but not incredulous.

“Yes.” She meets his eyes, refusing to think of what her traitorous cheeks might be doing.

“That…” he hesitates, “is acceptable.” He sounds decisive, final. She can hear no doubt whatsoever in his voice.

For a moment that seems to stretch out in an infinity, they stare at each other, gazes locked. She is gaping, she thinks, unable to hide her astonishment. All this time spent considering his possible reactions and what she would say in response, for nothing.

“You…” her voice comes out high-pitched. It might even be called a squeak. No, she does not squeak. She is just surprised by this…  _ man, _ and his unpredictable habit of making life-changing decisions in an instant. Yes. She carefully controls her voice, fighting off the urge to slip into her familiar courtly pose and facial expression. “You would accept it just like that?”

“I have many questions,” he admits, clearly amused, “but I trust you, and I could not have proposed the way I did if I had not already accepted that there would be times when I would have to accept your reasoning even if I did not fully understand it.” His tone is light, but his words carry weight all the same. He really means every word, she knows, and for a brief unnerving moment she feels like she has absolutely no idea what she is getting into, in spite of all her preparation. His ability to instantly accept whatever might come at him and decide on the spot is utterly reckless, infuriating… and in a flash of clarity, she realizes that she envies him for it.

“For one thing, would your father allow something like this?” he wonders, blissfully unaware of her sudden bout of inner turmoil. Still, the question helps her recover - for this, at least, she has prepared.

“Maybe, maybe not, but he does not need to know the whole story,” she dismisses him. “We will have to contrive some reason for me to go with you to Edoras.”

“I would not lie to Imrahil,” he protests, frowning at her.

“He would not think to ask,” she counters, “so you would not need to. The idea is outlandish enough to make me suspect that many people would not believe us even if we told them the truth.”

He looks at her in consternation. “That may be so, but would there not be rumors if we spend a lot of time together? I do not know much about what is considered appropriate by your standards, but I do not want to ruin your reputation.”

“It is a concern,” she acknowledges, “but I believe the risk to be manageable, especially if we take care with when and how we are seen together.” This, she has considered carefully. “I am accustomed to having eyes on me, and while rumors spread like wildfire, the Mark is a very long way from home,” she adds.

He considers this, but then he suddenly pales. “Tell me,” he ventures in a strangled tone, “when you said ‘in every way a wife would’, what precisely did you mean by that?” There’s a curious emphasis on the way he says  _ wife, _ and her mind instantly recalls a certain exchange in the garden, leaping to a mortifying conclusion. She had been doing so well not thinking about…  _ that _ . It is not important, she tells herself sternly, but that does not stop a confusing whirlpool of emotions nor the color rising in her cheeks.

She makes an effort to conceal it all by giving him a withering glare. “Do not be a boor, Éomer,” she snaps. “Of course I did not mean we would share a bedchamber.” He is coloring now too, muttering something apologetic under his breath as he avoids looking at her. “And do not leap so recklessly into an agreement if you are not certain of the terms!” she snaps at him, annoyance rising out of her embarrassment.

He raises his palms in a familiar placating gesture, looking suitably chastised. “I apologize. I did not mean to imply anything untoward.” In a flash of horror, she realizes that once again, her mind and her mouth have betrayed her. He has in fact said nothing that could possibly be construed as inappropriate, while she wasted no time in bringing up topics no lady should be discussing in such crude a manner. She tips her face down, cradling it in her palms, and has to suppress a groan. At least Ivriniel’s voice in the back of her head is mercifully silent. The old lady would probably have fainted, had she been present.

“My understanding was…” he begins, hesitant but apparently trying to smooth the whole thing over. Bless his heart. No, this is all his fault in the first place. Curse the man and his uncanny habit of putting her so badly off balance! “That is,” he continues, very cautiously, oblivious to her conflicting emotions, “I gathered that your intention is to gain a… better understanding… of what you are getting into. My thoughts got ahead of me,” not nearly as far ahead as hers, she notes darkly, “and I was concerned about what a fine mess we could find ourselves in if your father and your brothers thought I was… taking advantage of you. Again, I apologize.”

Her imagination instantly ambushes her with a vivid image of Erchirion catching the two of them stealing kisses in a rose garden. Are there roses in Edoras? She could ask Éowyn… no. This is absurd. “I will keep them off your back,” she says, and voice muffled, as she still has her face cradled in her palms. It takes some effort to let it go and look at him again. He seems worried, and probably as embarrassed as she is. At least he isn’t laughing at her. “It would not be the first time I went off and did something outrageous,” she makes a feeble attempt at joking. It is a great relief to see him relax at that, and she instantly feels at ease herself.

“Gaining familiarity with the intimate parts of the relationship before committing would ease my mind,” she hears herself blurt out, “but I believe it would be unwise to do so. I will have to make a leap of faith.” Her mind catches up to her mouth, and she stops. They stare at each other. No, this has to stop, right now. She stands up ramrod straight, her courtly pose perfect, expression smoothening into her impassive mask. She is in control.

“Please forget you ever heard me say that,” she says, calmly, her tone as unconcerned as if she was discussing the weather. She is as solid and unshakeable as the enormous seawalls of the citadel back home in Dol Amroth.

“I heard nothing,” he responds, making a quite credible attempt to keep his tone grave and his expression serious, but he is betrayed by a faint twitching at the corner of his mouth. She holds her pose for a moment longer, then lets out a deep sigh and lets herself relax. He is twitching more now, clearly having difficulties with containing his laughter, and she gives him a half-hearted glare.

“And you,” he says, voice full of mirth and fighting to control his expression, “call me unbelievable.” She makes a little snort of amusement, but then she is suddenly exploding into hysterical giggling at the absurdity of it all, and soon they’re both crying with laughter.

“I think,” he says once they manage to calm themselves, “we need to go talk to my sister.” He’s rubbing at the corners of his eyes, a broad smile on his face. She has to fight to stop herself from breaking out into giggles again, and she’s grinning right back at him. Around him, losing control and saying whatever absurd thing comes to her mind might not be so bad, after all.

“To Éowyn? Why?” she wonders.

“I think she might be able to help with the practicalities of getting you to Edoras,” he says, amused, “and if I know her, she already suspects we are up to something. Since she met Faramir, she has become a great deal more interested in which ladies I am talking to. I think she wants me to have what she has.” His voice is warmed by a tone of fond exasperation.

It’s not a bad idea, she realizes. Éowyn is a dear friend to her, and trusted by them both. “If we involve her in the conspiracy,” she thinks out loud, “we could avoid a great deal of meddling, and having her as an ally could make many things a great deal easier.”

“Exactly,” he agrees. “Come, let us go find her.” He smiles happily at her and offers her his elbow.

“Right now?” she asks, surprised, but finds herself linking arms with him and following his lead, without really meaning to.

“Of course,” he smiles sideways at her, his expression soft and his tone warm. “I very much look forward to showing you Edoras,” he adds softly, and she smiles back, his happiness and excitement infectious.

She really has absolutely no idea what she is getting into, she knows with sudden certainty, but somehow she feels more exhilarated than anxious. This, she thinks, will be interesting. It might be the greatest idea she ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point I should probably mention that the idea for this whole dumb fic came about after reading about way too many Éomer/Lothíriel wedding nights. They were great wedding nights, mind, and I enjoyed it, but I found myself itching to see them exploring each other a bit more before the wedding night, and so I contrived this bit of silliness. These two idiots could talk themselves into almost anything.
> 
> I don't plan to tell the story of their definitely-not-courting and I-have-no-idea-what-the-word-love-means period in detail, but I do want to write at least a few scenes from it. There might be smut? We shall see.


End file.
